‘We evidently did, sir.’
‘Console yourself with the thought that he did not think of using the Rocket troop. He has, however, asked the Partisans to help. A few irregular cavalry in the hills will make life easier.’ Sharpe wondered if Teresa would receive that message. Might he see her at Christmas? The thought quickened him and pleased him. Nairn took the letter back and turned the page. His face was serious. ‘The Partisans, though, are not to take the credit. Spain believes that British troops raped this village and defiled their church. There must be a new sermon preached in the churches, gentlemen, that British troops avenged that massacre, and that any person in Spain is safe under the protection of our flag.’ He had evidently been paraphrasing the letter, for now he dropped it and smiled at Sharpe. ‘You told these bastards they had till New Year’s Day?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then break your word, Major. Go and kill them at Christmas instead’
‘Yes, sir.’
Nairn looked out of the window. The rain had stopped and a great rift was spreading through the clouds, bringing back the blue sky. The Scotsman smiled. ‘Good hunting, gentlemen. Good hunting.’
CHAPTER 7
The Rifle Captain looked villainous. His left eye was gone, the socket covered by a black patch that was green at the edges. Most of his right ear was missing, and two of his front teeth were clumsy fakes. The wounds had all been taken on battlefields.
He slammed to attention in front of Sharpe, saluted, and the military precision was diluted by the suspicion in his voice. ‘Captain Frederickson, sir.’ Frederickson looked lithe as a whip, as hard as the brass furniture on his mens’ rifles.
The second Captain, burlier and less confident, allowed a smile on his face as he saluted. ‘Cross, sir. Captain Cross.’ Captain Cross wanted Major Sharpe to like him, Frederickson could not give a damn.
There had been elation in promotion, but now Sharpe was surprised by his nervousness. Just as Cross wanted Sharpe to like him, so Sharpe wanted to be liked by the men who had come under his command. He was being tempted to believe that if he was friendly and approachable, reasonable and kind, then men would follow him more willingly. But kindness was not the wellspring of loyalty and he knew the temptation had to be resisted. ‘What are you smiling about, Captain?’
‘Sir?’ Cross’s eyes darted to Frederickson, but the one-eyed man stared flintily ahead. The smile went.
These Captains, and their Companies, were the men whom Sharpe would lead into the Gateway of God, into a difficult night action, and that would be no place for a friendly, approachable, reasonable and kind man. They might like him eventually, but first they would have to dislike him because he imposed standards on them, because loyalty came from respect. ‘What’s your state?’
Frederickson answered first, as Sharpe had thought he would. ‘Seventy-nine men, sir. Four Sergeants and two Lieutenants.’
‘Ammunition?’
‘Eighty rounds, sir.’ The answer was too pat, it was a lie. British gunpowder was the best in the world and most soldiers made a few pence on the side by selling cartridges to villagers. Yet Frederickson’s answer also implied that the shortfall was none of Sharpe’s business. He, Frederickson, would make sure his men went into battle with a full pouch. I Sharpe looked at Cross. ‘Captain?’
‘Fifty-eight men, sir. Four Sergeants and one Lieutenant.’
Sharpe looked at the Companies that paraded in Frenada’s square. They were tired, dishevelled, waiting for dismissal. They had just marched from the Coa and were looking forward to warm billets, drink, and a meal. Haifa dozen horses, the property of officers, stood in front of the green jacketed ranks. Sharpe looked up at the sun. Three hours of daylight left. ‘We’re taking extra ammunition. It’s signed for. I’ll tell your Sergeants where to fetch it.’
Cross nodded. ‘Sir.’
‘And we’re going ten miles tonight. All officers’ horses are to stay here.’ He turned away, turned back by an exclamation of surprise from Captain Cross.
‘Captain?’
‘Nothing, sir.’
Frederickson was smiling, just smiling.
They bivouacked that night, as cold as flogged skin in winter, making shelters from branches and cooking ration beef in the small camp kettles. No Riflemen ever carried the huge Flanders Cauldrons that were the army issue and had to be carried on a mule because of their weight. It took a whole tree-trunk to warm a Flanders Cauldron and so the Light troops of Wellington’s army simply took the small cooking pots from the enemies they killed, as they took their comfortable packs, and Sharpe looked at the thirty small fires with satisfaction. His own Company was with him, a shrunken Company because the summer of 1812 had whittled his numbers down. Lieutenant Price, three Sergeants, and just twenty eight men were the South Essex’s skirmishers, and only nine of the men, plus Harper, were Riflemen from Sharpe’s old Company of the 95th that he had brought out of the retreat to Corunna four years before. Price shared a fire with Sharpe, looked at his Major and shivered. ‘We can’t go in with you, sir?’